


Operation Redemption

by SashaDistan



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (what's the violent version of a meet-cute?), Alternate Universe - X-Men Fusion, Angel! Shiro (Voltron), Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nightcrawler! Keith (Voltron), Pining Shiro (Voltron), Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 19:02:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30060105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SashaDistan/pseuds/SashaDistan
Summary: Shiro thought this mission would be like any other rogue mutant rescue. But Keith is a surprise, and earning his trust might be something which can save Shiro too.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 101





	Operation Redemption

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of Lionhearted: A Hero Sheith Zine

“I dislike this new look, for the record.”

“You preferred the all-black ensembles the professor had us in before?” Allura asks with a smile, scraping the rest of her impressively cloud-like hair into a high bun. “I think you look great.”

Shiro releases one joystick of the jet and tugs instead at the stud closure over his chest. The silver and black jacket is stylish, but the thick material combined with the armoured plates and the high collar makes him feel like he can’t breathe. More importantly-

“I don’t know how well I can fly in this.”

“You’ll do fine,” Allura assures him, leaning over with a wink; allowing her blown kiss to land with a powerful breeze against his cheek. “The coordinates Pidge gave us are coming up. Ulaz’s intel says it’s an old catholic church.” She flicks the images from her datapad up to the holoscreen, partially overlaying the viewport Shiro is using along with his heads up display to fly the jet low and unseen over the outskirts of the city. “The Professor couldn’t get a good read on this mutant or their powers – he said something about the signal cutting in and out constantly – but we’re awfully close to a Galra outpost here. Best stay under the radar.”

“You say that like I’m not the best flyer in the Northern Hemisphere, Storm.”

“I’ll race you with a blizzard and then we’ll see, Angel.”

The new stealth jet is small enough to land in the parking lot across the street from the church. Allura sets up a hologram of various, randomly generated vehicles to stop anyone trying to park in the otherwise ‘empty’ space the jet occupies. The two of them slip across the lot in between shadows until they reach the half open door. There is light within – flickering and soft, probably votive candles – and the scent of warm wax and burnt spices. Shiro breathes deep, tasting juniper and paprika in the air, and opens the door. Allura’s datapad chirrups: the mutant they are tracking is definitely still here.

The air fizzes, somewhere above their heads, and Shiro turns as he moves along the nave toward the altar, eyes tracking the deep shadows in between the rafters, pillars, and arches of the high ceiling. There is the sense of movement, though Shiro can’t actually see anything, and the dark skin of his shadow-touched right arm tingles. Like an old injury which predicts the rain, the only lingering after effect of the curse the Professor hasn’t been able to fix has been these premonitions of danger.

“We’re not here to hurt you.”

“Liar.” The voice comes from somewhere behind and above him, and Shiro spins around even as Allura reaches the altar, making space around herself to begin gathering power for her weather. Then there is another fizzle, the air tasting hot and burnt, and the voice sounds from his left, gravelly and low. “Get out.”

“We’re from Xavier’s school,” Allura begins in her most reasonable voice. “We’re not with the Galra.”

There is a sharp, fast noise – the kind of thing Shiro can’t even describe, but it’s inescapably burned into his memory – and he springs back with a flap of his wings just before a long, curved knife thunks powerfully into the wooden hymn panel next to his head. Whoever threw it knew what they were doing, but they also gave their position away.

Shiro is aloft in moments, dust and loose bible pages swirling across the stone floor, eyes fixed on the darker shadow within the general blackness. As he rises, he sees a flash of yellow eyes and the shine of sharp teeth. And then it’s gone, vanishing in a swirl of incorporeal smoke, and Allura yelps as the mutant materialises in front of her.

In the candlelight their target is more mutant in appearance than almost anyone Shiro’s ever met – with deep indigo skin and inky dark hair, tail lashing back and forth behind him as he lifts up a hand with only three thick digits to slash at Allura.

There is a boom, and the windows vibrate with the force of the thunder and the strike of lightning which follows – unnaturally – half a breath later, but Allura’s storm is outside the church, and the roof is too thick and the walls too solid to allow it right inside. But the distraction is enough, and Shiro turns on a wing tip and swoops down to grab the dark mutant by the back of his tattered and faded red velvet jacket, hauling him up with a powerful thrust of his wings.

Almost every mutant stops struggling upon finding themselves suddenly airborne and a good distance above a hard and unyielding surface, but not this one. One second Shiro is holding the mutant in both hands, and the next the snarling, spitting, creature is vanishing into nothing but grainy ash, teleporting away. Shiro brakes, wings splayed wide in shock, bringing himself to a halt just before he might have otherwise crashed into a pillar. From the arch just above him, the mutant crouches, tail swinging low. He snarls at Shiro, showing all his impressively sharp teeth, and Shiro takes in the strangely shaped feet and hands, which grip the flat stonework as though gravity is an entirely optional concept.

“I told you. We’re not here to hurt you.”

“I’m not going back!” the mutant spits. “I will not crawl through the night for them again!”

“Keith?” Allura’s voice is clear as it echoes in the church. “You are Keith?”

One glance shows Shiro that she has found whatever stash of possessions the mutant has, and is now holding a small square object. It looks like a photo – which must have significance to the newly identified Keith – because his yellow eyes go suddenly round.

“No!”

He flashes out of existence, the air tastes scalded, and Shiro whips around in time to see his friend thrust a gust of cold air right through the half-materialised shape of the mutant. The dark swirl of him vanishes, already reforming in the sanctuary behind her. Shiro tightens his jaw, teeth clacking, and drops like a stone. His wings tuck close to his spine, though the motion brings with it an almost painful clenching of his back muscles under the constricting construction of the new jacket, but despite that, Shiro knows he’s still fast. Just as Keith becomes fully solid, Shiro grabs him from behind, feet finding the floor, even as he lifts the far lesser weight of the other mutant, pinning his arms to his sides.

“We’re not trying to hurt you!”

Shiro doesn’t get an answer before his captive is, quite literally, slipping through his fingers, and he just manages to get his wings open before the other mutant lands on his back. Shiro propels them into the air, and Keith’s thick, claw-tipped fingers tear right through the silver fabric of his jacket as he hangs on. With one swift motion the mutant has a strong and slender arm around his throat, yanking Shiro’s face up to meet his, his tightly gripping limbs making each wing beat an effort.

Keith has the knife – the one he threw with its wicked curved blade and shining edge – gripped in his prehensile tail.

“I won’t let you take me back there.” His voice is gravelly and low, but there is an urgency in his tone which Shiro feels echoed in his chest. His fear makes sense, because from the intel that Ulaz was able to gather, Keith is the last of the recent escapees from the Galra who remains alive. Shiro knows what that’s like.

“I would kill anyone who tried.” The response clearly isn’t what Keith was expecting, the knife held in his tail falters. Shiro reaches over his shoulder, wraps his shadow-touched arm around Keith’s shoulder, but halfway through the motion the boy vanishes. Shiro growls in exasperation. “Keith, please-”

But the mutant is attached to the stonework, crouching in reverse, above his head and there is no denying the power in his spring as he launches himself at Shiro’s chest. Shiro’s wings are not enough to stop the careening twist of their fall together. So, he wraps his wings around the boy snarling in his face, determined to prove that not everyone is as bad as the Galra.

Their eyes meet – soft grey to sharp yellow, and the inside of Keith’s mouth is very pink as his lips part around the question he doesn’t say.

And then he’s gone, vanishing with a coil of gritty black smoke and the tang of burning turmeric and paprika. Shiro’s fall is broken by the upward impact of Keith springing onto his back. It’s too late to stop the motion entirely, and they land on the stone mosaic floor of the transept with a thud and a pair of twin groans. Shiro rolls onto his front, wincing at the ache in his wings where he landed, filling his lungs as he turns to look at Keith.

The boy is staring at him, hand outstretched in his direction, pain and wonder writ across his dark features. Beyond the deep blue skin, the sharp fangs, and the pointed ears, his face is beautiful. High cheekbones and a fine narrow chin, and Shiro has the blink-fast thought that he would like to see Keith smile.

“I’m Shiro,” he offers with a grin of his own. “We’re the X-Men.”

“ANGEL!” Allura shouts, and then all hell breaks loose.

There is snarling and snapping, and then Shiro is on his feet and whirling, discarding the flapping remains of his ruined jacket, to find the open doors of the church filling with fast-expanding fire.

“Pyro and his henchmen!” Keith snarls.

Shiro folds up his wings as tight as he can because he’s had his feathers burnt before, and nothing is more painful. But the flames which rush up to them don’t singe, because Keith is grabbing him tight and Shiro’s stomach lurches as he too vanishes into a strange, dematerialised state. And then he’s grabbing onto the stonework, his feet balanced on the wide oak beam, fully solid once more in time to watch Allura’s lighting strike through the doorway and catch Toad in the back. The stench of roasted amphibian fills the air.

Allura douses Pyro’s expanding fireball with a blast of sleet from outside – wet and windy weather is the easiest for her to call up after all – and Shiro catches sight of the third member of the Galra who’s been brought to catch Keith.

Sabertooth, with his overgrown fangs and purple fur, scans for the darting little black shape of Keith, and instead finds Shiro standing on high. His ruined eye still manages a scowl as he roars.

“Archangel!”

“Not any more.” Shiro knows he shouldn’t goad his enemy, but he can’t help himself.

“Afraid to fight me, little bird?”

Shiro doesn’t bother with a response, but lifts himself into the air with powerful wingbeats, keeping his opponents clearly visible as Sabertooth redirects Pyro’s energy toward him. Allura is running for the doors – she needs to be closer to her weather – but this is not a fight they have come prepared to have. Shiro dodges a gout of flame, twisting to slip beneath the nearest stone arch and into one of the aisles. Sabertooth is already swarming up the pillar, hardly as refined as Keith’s movements but effective nonetheless, and Shiro lands before his white feathers can be snatched mid-flight. He turns in time to be pushed backward, and then he is trapped in a fist fight with a mutant who towers over him, someone who still wants to hurt him for the loss of his eye.

The blows come thick and fast, and Shiro blocks more than he strikes, because Sabertooth is after his wings. Shiro will not allow him to make him flightless. Not again. There is a snarl from somewhere behind them, the tang of cumin and cardamom, and Sabertooth turns his attention to the prey he was sent here to collect. Shiro sees his opportunity, and strikes.

The vestigial thumbs which tip his wings, and have for him mutated into fully opposable claws, are sharp and deadly. Even after escaping from the Galra and life as a captive fighter, Shiro has continued his ritual of keeping them honed to perfect points. It hurts, a little, but they are his only natural weapon, and life is too dangerous to be without them. Blood wells in the gouge across Sabertooth’s face, but as he roars there is a flash of dark metal, and Shiro is the one leaping back from the spray of blood. Keith rips the knife from the deep slash in Sabertooth’s neck, and wastes no time in theatrics before swapping hands and jamming the knife up to the hilt in-between Sabertooth’s ribs.

There should be satisfaction in watching his enemy die, maybe even mourning because Sabertooth was not always the weapon the Galra made him into, but Shiro can barely pull his eyes away from the slender, powerful form of Keith. No one should be able to make violence look that sexy.

And then Keith turns from the dead mutant, braces a three-fingered hand against the wall, and throws up.

It does not take long for the noise and drama of the fight to be over. Without his backup, Pyro flees. Shiro helps Allura to tie Toad up, leaving him propped against the pillar near the body of Sabertooth now covered with the altar cloth. Allura leaves Shiro to approach the hunched-up figure of Keith, tucked back behind the altar, his meagre possessions cradled in his unusual hands.

“Keith?”

“He called me Nightcrawler. That’s what they said, when they credited me with a name at all.”

“No one will ever call you that again.” Shiro crouches, keeping his distance despite himself.

“I think… I kind of like it. It would be nice to take it back.”

“Reclamation is powerful.” Shiro glances between Keith’s pinched expression and the little square picture – faded, grainy, showing a small blue skinned boy with two parents in front of a colourful trailer – and offers the young mutant his hand. “It is dangerous to stay here. You don’t have to remain with us if you don’t like what we’re offering, but please, let us keep you safe, if only for tonight?”

Keith’s eyes are wide and round, but he slides the picture into his shirt – against his heart – and moves to take Shiro’s hand. At the last second, he seems to think better of it. Shiro uses his other hand – the dark one, shadow-touched and slightly clawed – to grab hold of Keith’s wrist. The boy blinks at him in shock, and Shiro laces their fingers together, even though he has many more fingers than Keith does.

“I’m Keith,” the boy manages as they stand.

Shiro beams.

“Nice to meet you Keith. You ever flown in a jet?”

Keith grins.

*

Shiro wakes with the scent of burnt spices in his nostrils, and his feathers rustle as he tenses up. But all is quiet – other than the softly fading fizzle of briefly displaced matter – and Shiro forces himself to relax each of his limbs before he leans up on his forearms. His gaze settles on the corner by the wardrobe which is reached by neither the light from the half-shuttered window, nor the narrow bar of illumination which creeps in from around the door. For all his mutant status, Shiro’s night vision isn’t any better than a regular humans, but he is patient.

Patience yields focus, after all. Even in the dark.

As he watches, moving only enough to become comfortable, one wing folded loosely against his back, the other with its black tipped feathers spanning down to brush against the floor, he begins to make out the small, huddled shape in the corner. Deep blue skin and inky black hair make his camouflage more comprehensive, but the tiny twitch of his arrow-tipped tail gives him away.

“Keith…”

Shiro swears he hears the other mutant tensing up, gathering his power together to leave just as he came in.

“It’s okay. You can stay.” Shiro has the feeling that the plea of ‘don’t go’, would be taken as a command and cause an adverse reaction.

The burnt tang – similar to the feeling before a thunderstorm – dissipates, and Shiro sits up by degrees, folding his legs underneath him until he’s sitting up fully in his bed, the sheets around his hips, his wings held low and unimposing. It’s dark, late or very early depending on how you look at it, and Shiro has a fairly good idea of why the newly recruited Nightcrawler has ended up in his room. It’s only been a few days, there’s probably very few other people here he knows, and none he trusts.

“Bad dreams?” Shiro doesn’t actually expect an answer. “I used to get really bad ones. Every now and then I still do, but the time and stability helps. Getting to wake up in the same place, knowing I’m not going to be forced into a cage to fight someone-”

“What?” The word sounds sharp and bitten off, as though Keith didn’t actually intend to speak at all.

Shiro curls his shadow-touched wing closer to himself, and strokes his opposite fingers through the long flight feathers which lay over his lap.

“Most of us had lives before Professor Xavier found us. Many of us didn’t have very happy ones.”

There is the tiniest – almost imperceptible – hint of a shuffle. Keith’s blue tail tip vanishes into shadow, then reappears along with his oddly graceful tridactyl hand. His nails are dark, slightly shiny, and Shiro bites his lip to stop himself from saying anything.

“You… where were you before, Angel?”

“Please, call me Shiro. I don’t want to be one of the X-Men at three in the morning in my underwear.” Shiro breathes a laugh so Keith doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence by apologising. “I was a cage fighter for the Galra. Which makes it sound like a I had a choice but-”

“-No one has a choice when it comes to the Galra,” Keith finishes for him. “Yeah, I know.”

Shiro watches as Keith’s fingers form into a fist, his knuckles showing pale through his deep indigo skin. His broad nails must be digging deep into his palms. Shiro feels a deep pang of sympathy for the boy.

“Would you like any help wi-?”

“I’m fine!” Keith bites back before he can finish.

Shiro exhales softly, letting his wings droop further, trying not to project the silhouette of the once infamous Archangel who once cut people down with the clawed tips of his wings. Keith’s eyes meet his in the dark, two wide pale discs, reflecting the meagre light back at him like a tiger – only infinitely more dangerous and beautiful.

He doesn’t like to recall the time he spent indebted to the Galra. Forced to fight for their amusement, never fully able to stretch his wings, biding his time until he could be free. And yet freedom terrified him, because he’d never known it. He’d never seen Keith – or heard his name – whilst he’d been _of use_ to the Galra, and though Shiro hopes Keith wasn’t their prisoner for long before he got free, he has a feeling he’s wrong.

The Galra only see mutants as tools or toys. If a person isn’t right for one of their jobs, then they’ll use them as training for one of the mutants that is. Shiro remembers having mutants thrown at him like that, remembers the way they’d fought him – desperate, wild, knowing they would die sooner than he would – and shudders. In a way, being given to him was more merciful than some of the alternatives. He focuses on the scared, hunched over shape in the darkest corner of his room, and wonders what kind of mutants used Keith as a training aid.

“You fought beautifully, back in the church. Such grace and restraint.”

“Oh…” One long, bare leg uncurls and Shiro’s eyes have become accustomed enough to the wan light to make out the patterns – slashes and dots and wicked curves – of scars which decorate his dark skin. “That’s… I didn’t expect you to say that.” There is a clack of sharp fangs. “I’m not normally praised for my _restraint_.”

“You could have been much more vicious.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Keith whispers softly, into the dark.

“I don’t want to hurt you either,” Shiro echoes. “Do you want to tell me about your dream?”

“No.” The petulant tone is back. Shiro knows that this boy has a stubborn streak even wider than his own. “I don’t… I hate sleeping alone.”

“Okay.” Shiro waits, giving the boy space. Room to think and choose his words and actions.

“I don’t like people either. Can’t trust people.”

“Sounds lonely.” Calm, soft, without judgement. An observation, nothing more.

“I’m… I’m going to stay here.” Keith shuffles his bare feet, both thick toes digging into the plush floor rug. “Go back to sleep,” he commands.

Shiro considers this – this odd boy with his indigo skin and velvety soft fur, yellow eyes blazing brightly in the gloom – ordering him around in his own bedroom. Then he makes a soft noise of acquiescence in the back of his throat, and shuffles himself until he is lying on his side near the edge of the bed, wings arranged comfortably behind him, the sheets covering his legs and chest once more. Comfortable with one arm curled up under his pillow and head, he takes his chance.

“You don’t have to stay on the floor, Keith.”

Keith doesn’t answer, and Shiro allows his eyes to slide closed, expecting to smell the charred-spice scent of Keith’s departure any moment.

That moment doesn’t come.

Instead, Shiro waits, doing his best to at least try and relax and appear non-threatening, which is not the simplest task with a mutant in his room who fought him the first time they met. Eventually there is a shuffle, the microscopic sounds of self-adhesive toes flexing against the floor, the faintest rustle of loose fabric, and then there is a touch – a single fingertip – against the sharp point of his wing claw. Shiro forces himself to remain extremely still.

It takes another few minutes, during which Shiro is sure he counts every single heartbeat, but then the mattress is dipping and Keith slides under the sheets. There is a flash of reflected light as their eyes meet, but the moment Keith realises he is awake he rolls over, offering Shiro nothing more than the sweet curve of his bare back and the silky-looking mass of his dark hair. Shiro swallows the urge to drool.

He does not expect to be allowed to touch.

Shiro settles himself, letting his wings fall loose now that he doesn’t have to worry about them not taking up floor space, and is in the process of tucking his free hand close to his chest when he feels a flame-warm tightness around his wrist. Keith’s long, prehensile tail wraps tight around him, and though Shiro knows he could pull away, he finds himself perfectly content to allow the other mutant to position him to his liking.

He ends up with his palm splayed over Keith’s hip and the flat of his stomach, Keith’s tail looped loosely around Shiro’s ankles, and the soft skin of the boy pressed like a brand along his front from sternum to knee. Keith’s hair against his collarbone is just as smooth and beautiful as he imagined. He wants to run his fingers through it, but he’s loathe to move now that Keith appears to be finally comfortable.

“They killed my family.” Keith’s words break the silence, whisper soft as they are. “Well, not _them_ specifically, but head hunters the Galra paid for their successful captures. We were easy targets I suppose: a travelling circus moves with its money after all. I tried to help, I tried to-” Keith’s words are subsumed by a bitten off sob, and Shiro knows he absolutely should not say anything about it.

It takes a long time for Keith to start talking again.

“I wasn’t fast enough, or strong enough. I was just a kid. My uncle, he tried really hard to hide me, fought them off for so long.” Keith’s abdomen tenses under Shiro’s hand as he inhales deeply. “I didn’t even get to hold him as he died. That was the distraction they used to knock me out and drag me away.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be. It’s not like you were there. At least you made money for them. They probably treated you nicer.”

Shiro swallows the concerned noise he was going to make. It doesn’t seem to matter, and Shiro wonders briefly if telepathy is on Nightcrawler's extensive list of talents.

“It’s not like I gave all these scars to myself, Shiro.”

“Oh Keith…”

“I don’t want your pity!”

“I… it’s not pity.” Shiro tightens his hold on Keith's hip and feels the boy tense – tail squeezing painfully around his ankle, before going slack again. “I hate to know that you have suffered, and that the people who hurt you are still alive and, probably, hurting others.”

“Why should you care? You don’t really know me.”

Shiro does not point out that – despite this being true – Keith was the one who came to his room in the middle of the night and crawled into his bed to be securely spooned. Thinking about it too much makes something flutter in Shiro’s stomach which feels far larger than a regular nervous butterfly.

“You held back, in the church. You’re fast and skilled. You could have really hurt me, if you’d wanted to.” Shiro chews his lip, trying to distract himself from the softness of Keith’s skin, so close to his mouth. “You could have been a powerful fighter for the Galra. I wouldn’t have wanted to face you in their arena.”

“Did you miss the bit where I’m really bad at taking orders?” Keith retorts with a smirk Shiro can hear in his voice. “They kept me around until I got bigger, hoping I would be a useful tool – not like they were going to find anyone who wanted a plaything which looks like me, thank fuck – and then I wouldn’t fight for them anyway… They didn’t care about making me uglier.”

“Keith.” Shiro doesn’t actually mean to speak, but he can’t let the distaste in Keith’s voice go unchallenged. “You are beautiful.”

Keith snorts derisively. Shiro uncurls his other hand from under his pillow and uses his shadow-touched fingers to cup Keith’s jaw, twisting his face to meet his eyes. He almost expects to get bitten from his impertinence, but the yellow eyes which refuse to meet his are brimming with unshed tears.

“Oh… Keith.”

“You- you can’t just say things like that.” Keith’s voice breaks with his words, and Shiro suddenly finds the boy spinning in his arms, face smushed up against his bare chest, sobbing quietly, his whole body shaking and hitching under Shiro’s hands as he cries. Shiro curls a wing up around them both, cocooning them in soft whiteness, shutting out the rest of the world.

Suddenly he can see how it was, how Keith – small and young and inexperienced – was torn from his life and his home, and passed from pillar to post as the cruel machine of the Galra’s operation tried to find a use for him. All Shiro knows is that since he got free, Keith’s still had to fight for everything and hide from everyone. Even without the delightful tension of their fight, and the graceful way Keith moved, Shiro knows that he would want to do whatever he could to support the sweet boy in his arms.

Keith doesn’t speak, demands nothing else of him, and Shiro doesn’t care. He wants to hold Keith in his arms and keep him safe from the world for as long as he’s able to.

*

Shiro is finishing up a third year class on astronomy and space exploration – he’s the only one of the instructors with any real expertise in subject apart from the Professor, and he’s allowed to pretty much form the curriculum as he likes – when he catches the scent of hot paprika and burnt turmeric in the air. Before he can turn, a dark hand is pressing over his eyes, and a sly voice in his ear nearly brushes over his skin when his surprise assailant speaks.

“Guess who?”

Shiro does not need to guess, because he hasn’t spent a night sleeping alone in over a week now, and last night Keith hadn’t even waited for lights out to teleport into his room and get comfortable in Shiro’s bed. Keith looks very at home in Shiro’s bed, and Shiro is already bad at pretending he wants it any other way.

“Hey, Keith.”

“I got a surprise for you, _Angel_.”

The intonation makes Shiro spin round, mindful of the bulk of his wings where they emerge from his specially adapted henley, and he catches the tail-end – literally – of Keith blinking in and out of solid matter in order to avoid getting clipped in the face. As he materialises fully, crouched upon Shiro’s desk with his elbows on his knees and his tail weaving behind him for balance, Shiro feels his heart block his throat.

This is how he dies, unable to breathe because the Professor has clearly let Lance and Allura loose on Keith’s suit design. Shiro can’t think of anything other than how wide Keith’s shoulders are in comparison to his trim waist.

“Like it?”

“Oh… _yes_.” Shiro tries not to sound too much like he’s memorizing every detail of the red and black spandex suit. “Really… red suits you.”

“Xavier said I could get someone to show me the grounds, do some outdoor training. You free?”

Shiro doesn’t need to check his timetable. For Keith, he’s always going to be free.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come chat with us on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SashaDistan)
> 
> This author responds to comments.
> 
> Thank you to the incredible [Lole](https://twitter.com/@leandralena) for being an awesome beta reader.


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